reader, writer, reviewer: bluestocking with a vengeance

July 12, 2012

Her mother pregnant with the latest of her seemingly endless siblings, Leanbh is sent to live with her aunt and uncle on a farm in Wexford, to help lighten the load on her mother shoulders. At home she had been tasked with chores around the farm, unused to rest or hanging about the house. Yet, the first thing she's told at her new, temporary home is she'll be doing none of the outside work. Instead, she'll stay around the house and help out her aunt.

For the only time in her life, for one brief, fleeting moment, Leanbh is an only child, looked after and cared for as if she were a gem more precious than money:

"There's a big moon shining on the yard, chalking our way onto the lane and along the road. Kinsella takes my hand in his. As soon as he takes it, I realise my father has never once held my hand, and some part of me wants Kinsella to let me go so I won't have to feel this. It's a hard feeling but as we walk along I begin to settle and let the difference between my life at home and the one I have here be. He takes small steps so we can walk in time. I think about the woman in the cottage, of how she walked and spoke, and conclude that there are huge differences between people."

In this short, spare novella Keegan brings out one ordinary Irish country child and two ordinary Irish country families, drawing from their stories the basic truths of life and love. From a life of survival, barely skimping along, to a home full of love, patience and a little money to spare, a little girl gets one peek into how different her life may have been.

The end of this book will break your heart. No matter what you expect will happen, Keegan has a deft touch. Her spare, stoic prose is absolutely stunning. A flawless book.

_____________________________

For Foster Claire Keegan won the Davy Byrnes Award, the world's largest prize for a story. It was previously published, in shorter form, in the New Yorker.

I immediately put her other books on interlibrary loan after I closed the cover of this one. She has two previous collections of stories: Antarctica (LA Times Book of the Year, Rooney Prize for Literature) and Walk the Blue Fields (2008 Edge Hill Prize for Short Stories for the finest book of stories in the British Isles).

Information about Keegan is sparse. She's not one to chat on the internet. I found her agent and that's about it. She's taught at several universities and won loads more prizes than I included above. And that's all to be had about her, more's the pity.

Now I've found myself in a novella mood and not just Irish novellas, though I have a fondness if you haven't noticed.

I'm romping 'round the internet looking for good suggestions for contemporary books. If you know of any quality novellas please do leave me a comment or email me. I've found a few lists but prefer recommendations by those who've actually read the books.

July 11, 2012

In early August I'm going on a self-imposed solitary writing retreat for just shy of a week. Left to my own devices at home there are always a million reasons I come up with not to work on fiction: I have to work at my day job, I have a book review due, I'm sleepy, I have physical therapy, it's my turn for Words with Friends, etc.

At this particular retreat there will be no TV, no phone (save for emergencies), no internet, no kids and no day job - just me and my laptop. No distractions, no excuses. The place is immaculate, air-conditioned and has a kitchen. I'm bringing frozen dinners, simple breakfasts and lunches, and a whole butt load of coffee. Simple provisions for a simple week.

My goal for this time away is to get a decent start on a novel and work out the first draft of an outline. The first go-over of character names would be great, too, since I always get hung up on that. It's tough coming up with names that don't sound goofy to me and pretty much every name I think up sounds goofy to me. Why, I don't know. I think it's a self-conscious thing, a fear they won't sounds genuine, fit the characters, etc.

But then, when I read a novel I'm not so much looking for missteps an author makes naming characters - unless it's desperately bad - as how those names are initially conveyed and subsequently used. An unnatural approach that makes me feel stabby concerns one character calling another by his/her full name every time he/she is addressed - more than one time in a conversation, etc. - lest the reader has the attention span of a wasp in a room full of women with fly swatters.

You have to give the reader some credit. Establish that person's presence, differentiate this person from others by usage of mannerisms and descriptives. Don't tell me the person's full name if s/he leaves the room and for god's sake don't tell me s/he walked "through a door" unless there's something key about it. If s/he goes through a window, or walks straight through a wall, okay. But when one person leaves an interior scene I pretty much figure it's by way of a door.

Now we're getting into the actions of a character, messy devices lazy writers use to take the reader's attention away from the plot. Don't tell me anything I don't need to know. Instead, tell me about the character's reactions to the world around him. I don't care about the pattern of the wallpaper, unless it's significant to the character. Maybe it has a nursery design and the character's child died - or it's a infertile woman. If there's a cowboy print it may remind a man of Roy Rogers and watching the movies with his dad when he was little. If it doesn't matter to the character's story, it doesn't matter to me.

Use of character names, show don't tell and what else...? Oh, silly me, the plot! Once upon a time all plots were linear; now the whole thing is up for grabs. Experimental writing flops all over the place like I do when I have insomnia but refuse to give in. Some fiction makes use of flashbacks or takes place solely in the past. Or the future.

The basic rule of thumb, when it comes to plot, is called Freytag's Triangle:

Exposition:

Inciting moment - hook(s) that draw the reader in

Intro of characters - fleshing them out as you go

Intro of setting(s)

Establish struggle/conflict - Why does the reader care about these people? What's this story about?

Wrap up loose ends/Possible dangling ends (You don't have to answer every question)

Look how simple it is! Anyone can write a novel!

Right...?

Of course nothing's absolute. Depending on how observant you want to be of classical story telling you can turn anything on its head. For my first run-through, though, I'm planning to follow the diagram set up as long ago as there have been stories, from "once upon a time" to "and they were all killed in a fiery explosion."

Next time around I'll talk about following the trail blazed by another writer, why that's okay and how you go about it. Why re-invent the wheel, especially when there are only, what, three or four plots every writer uses over and over?

As I read, somewhere or other, all novels can be boiled down to one of two things: someone comes into town or someone leaves town. True, or someone trying to look real smart-like?

Danged if I know. But I'll carry this on in my next post on the topic.

July 10, 2012

The premise is simple but brilliant: one day the earth's rotation begins to slow; from that point things rapidly degenerate, endangering all life on earth. It starts with birds falling from the sky, the earth's gravity thrown off, confusing their internal system of navigation. It only worsens as the planet continues shifting and changing.

The story is told from the perspective of a young girl named Julia, around 11 years old when it all begins. Her parents - a father who's an obstetrician, her mother an aging former actress - partially due to an effect from "the sickness" associated with "the slowing," watch their marriage disintegrate as they grow further and further apart. Meanwhile, despite the increasingly dire conditions, children remain children. Julia struggles to grow into maturity enduring the ups and downs of budding adolescence, suffering through the politics of middle school.

Everyone else loves the book; that's what I'm hearing from all corners of the literary world. Praise is generous, though if you read the acknowledgments it quickly becomes clear a high number of cover blurbs were written by her writing teachers. Walker has an MFA and is a former editor at Simon & Schuster. She's done everything right; her qualifications are stellar. Unfortunately, her writing skills are poor to forgettable.

My problem with the book wasn't the storyline, which is an excellent framework. The flaw is I was seldom moved to feel any of this. What should have been a terrifying tale of man's fragility in the face of forces beyond our control was instead a monotone relation of happenings. All well ordered, mind. For that I give her credit; I just didn't care about her characters, save Julia.

"This is not a disaster novel, per se: there are no ticking clocks, no handily placed experts to explain away any confusion, no epic finales. The Age of Miracles is refreshingly, and realistically, human-scaled, less about the disaster facing the world than it is about community, family and growing up. For 11-year-old Julia, the novel’s narrator, the Earth’s rotation may have slowed, but the world keeps on turning."

By now I worry I'm crazy, that I missed something pretty much everyone else saw. Are there no negative reviews out there?

"The Age of Miracles is a gentle reminder of what adolescents learn and adults try to forget – that the world is alarmingly mysterious and that the talismans of modernity are no defence against the “unimagined, unprepared for” miracles or calamities of love and loss."

Karen Thompson Walker is clearly the latest darling of the publishing world. Why I didn't feel it, why it didn't reach me is confusing and a little awkward.

Aha! My favorite book critic, the one with which I agree most often, Ron Charles!:

“The Age of Miracles” leaves us, instead, only with the typical tropes of tween anxiety set awkwardly alongside the death of the planet. Poor Julia must somehow cope with a new training bra and the destruction of the human race. That’s enough to make sixth grade a real bummer."

Victory! At last. Ron Charles has hit it right on the head, explaining why I could hardly care less about this book, why I struggled my way through it solely because almost everyone was raving. I was afraid I was missing something, not giving the book a fair shake. Turns out, I'm not the only one left cold:

"What “The Age of Miracles” would need to work, though, is more consistent quality. Its opening and closing chapters are fairly effective, but the bulk of the novel vacillates erratically between plain and melodramatic. Straining the ordinary pains of adolescence toward profundity, the story slowly winds down long before we get to the End."

Ah, what a relief. This is why I can't recommend this novel, an apt observation expressing my thoughts exactly. The novel was detached to the point of boredom, one long slog through the eyes of an 11-year old. If you want to read a truly masterful book on a similar topic, read Meg Rosoff's How I Live Now. Then come back and let me know how you feel about The Age of Miracles. Rosoff's novel is the perfect illustration of how this genre is done right.

July 09, 2012

Turn away now, Austenites! I'm about to make a statement you will find vulgar and unfitting for a lady of good breeding: I've abandoned my reread of Pride and Prejudice, leaving it due to the antsy feeling I encountered every time I sat down to it. I simply could not carry on! Woe betide me!

Will pause to allow the ladies to retrieve smelling salts from their reticules. Better?

For what work have I abandoned my recent attempt at rereading Miss Austen's novel? Why, the next book in my Guardian 1,000 Novels Project, that's what: Thomas Mann's novella Death in Venice, about an older man's infatuation with a much younger man. Need I pause again, m'lady? Feeling a bit faint?

Miss looks quite recovered. Oh, happy day!

The older gentleman in Mann's work is Gustav Aschenbach, an avant-garde* composer with a case of writer's block so extreme he embarks upon an excursion to Venice in hopes the muse will find him again there. After finding himself meandering through Munich's streets exhausted from insomnia and all but hallucinatory, he realized he could not go on this way. He was in need of a change of scene before he lost his gift:

"... Gustav Aschenbach was the poet of all those who were laboring on the brink of exhaustion, the overburdened and worn, who still tried to keep upright..."

I'm presently just past his arrival, via gondola, at the Lido in Venice. He's secured his hotel but has just had a curious incident with the gondolier in the day-time, whose menace and leering grin discomposed Gustav, to the point he demanded to be let out somewhere else, which the man refused to do. Realizing he was a captive passenger, he chose instead to resign himself to the pleasant, soothing rocking of the boat.

Awaiting the gondolier at the Lido were officials ready to apprehend him, for being the only operator of a gondola in Venice without a license. But there's something more about the man... and I'd probably best not tell you that. Instead, when I'm ready to share more about the work as a whole - once I've finished, which won't take long - I may seek to drive you to distraction dropping hints.

The Lido, Venice

Regarding my inability to settle with Austen this time around, my theory is having become immersed in much darker literature, between Barry's Ireland and the literature of the American South, I can't easily readjust to the Regency Period without finding the experience jarring. My hands itch for another book when I sit down with m'lady, an occurrence I've not confronted before. I'm sure the time will come when I can again appreciate Regency writing but for now I'm far too caught up in more contemporary fiction of the sort Austenites would surely abjure. Not to sound dismissive.

Since I began reading more modern writing - after a long period in which I felt earlier literature was the only quality reading - I've found myself converted to the realism of it, what many would consider depressing and dark. It makes me feel in a very different way earlier novels don't. I can't see myself delving much into the literature of the 18th century again, for example, a phase I went through more than five years ago. At the time I found Evelina's constant fainting a frustration but continued on because overall the story had a certain charm. Now I'd find it a bore. And on my shelves sit several rather hard to come by 18th century paperback reprints of the works of "neglected females of the 18th century." Yet, I dare not sell them, or give them away, because who knows when my tastes will switch around again - and I couldn't build up that collection again without much work and money. Right now I'd rather devote that time and money to a very different era of literature.

I've also spun that random number generator again, to determine my read after Mann. This time it came up with:

# 55: Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House by Eric Hodgins

Looks like another case of culture shock finishing Mann only to pick up a comedic novel. How this will go I can't say but I'm going to give it my best. Remember my rule: if I don't like it, I dump it. It's my "Too many good books" rule.

There's a 1948 film adaptation of the book, starring Cary Grant, Myrna Loy and Melvyn Douglas. I'll probably watch that after I read the book, though it sounds somewhat familiar and I think I may have seen it in the long, long ago times. With my Amazon Prime membership I can stream it for free, so what's to lose (save a bit of time)?

Speaking of films, there was a re-release of Luchino Visconti's adaptation of Death in Venice in 2010 (1971 original film):

"Luchino Visconti's adaptation of the Thomas Mann novel is the very definition of sumptuous: the costumes and sets, the special geography of Venice, and the breathtaking cinematography combine to form a heady experience. At the center of this gorgeousness is Aschenbach (Dirk Bogarde in a meticulous performance), a controlled intellectual who unexpectedly finds himself obsessed by the vision of a 14-year-old boy while on a convalescent vacation in 1911. Visconti has turned Aschenbach into a composer, which accounts for the lush excerpts from Mahler on the soundtrack (Bogarde is meant to look like Mahler, too). Even if it tends to hit the nail on the head a little too forcefully, and even if Visconti can test one's patience with lingering looks at crowds at the beach and hotel dining rooms, Death in Venice creates a lushness rare in movies. For some viewers, that will be enough. --Robert Horton"

Sounds fantastic, like a great accompaniment to the book. And I'm sure the library system will have it (for the record, yes, it does), to save me the $2.99 Amazon rental price, for which my Prime account fails me. There've been a few adaptations made but this one sounds the best by far.

We're now caught up on my Guardian project status to date: my apologies to Miss Austen for my failure on Pride and Prejudice, Death in Venice is lovely and I'm looking forward to Blandings.

That last book sounds like P.G. Wodehouse, doesn't it? After a bit of Amazon checking, that's because it's also the name of a series the English gentleman wrote, several of which I read when I was a teenager. I knew I'd heard that name somewhere before! Now I wonder if the two are actually related... Too early to look into that, with Mann on the go, but when it's time I will.

It's nice to feel all set, at least for this reading project, to know what's next, allowing plenty of time for each work - i.e., as much as I please, with added benefit of being liberal with myself in picking and choosing.

And still, on the go in the background for the foreseeable future: Ulysses...

* From Wikipedia:

"Avant-garde (French pronunciation: [avɑ̃ɡaʁd]); from French, "advance guard" or "vanguard"[1]) is a French term used in English as a noun or adjective to refer to people or works that are experimental or innovative, particularly with respect to art, culture, and politics.

Avant-garde represents a pushing of the boundaries of what is accepted as the norm or the status quo, primarily in the cultural realm. The notion of the existence of the avant-garde is considered by some to be a hallmark of modernism, as distinct from postmodernism. Many artists have aligned themselves with the avant-garde movement and still continue to do so, tracing a history from Dada through the Situationists to postmodern artists such as the Language poets around 1981.[2]"

July 07, 2012

Busy reading for review and even a bit for optional review. I always manage to squeeze in a little of both. That's what they call "life balance." Others may insist this is actually keeping your house clean, exercising, running errands and reading. But I'm not others. Work and pleasure; pleasure and work. And the occasional meal and bit of sleep.

Here's my current "balance:"

Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan

Farrar, Straus & Giroux

Release Date: October 2, 2012

[Review copy from publisher.]

A gleeful and exhilarating tale of global conspiracy, complex code-breaking, high-tech data visualization, young love, rollicking adventure, and the secret to eternal life—mostly set in a hole-in-the-wall San Francisco bookstore

"The Great Recession has shuffled Clay Jannon out of his life as a San Francisco Web-design drone—and serendipity, sheer curiosity, and the ability to climb a ladder like a monkey has landed him a new gig working the night shift at Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore. But after just a few days on the job, Clay begins to realize that this store is even more curious than the name suggests. There are only a few customers, but they come in repeatedly and never seem to actually buy anything, instead “checking out” impossibly obscure volumes from strange corners of the store, all according to some elaborate, long-standing arrangement with the gnomic Mr. Penumbra. The store must be a front for something larger, Clay concludes, and soon he’s embarked on a complex analysis of the customers’ behavior and roped his friends into helping to figure out just what’s going on. But once they bring their findings to Mr. Penumbra, it turns out the secrets extend far outside the walls of the bookstore."

I'm afraid you'll have to hang out 'til sometime in Septemberish for more, as well as an interview with author Robin Sloan .

There Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty by Sebastian Barry

Penguin Books, (reprint edition, 1999)

[My personal copy, signed by the man himself.]

Me? Reading Sebastian Barry? I know, how unusual. I've just heard such great things about him. Partly here on my blog but he seems to have caught on quite well in other places, too.

I've been in contact with Mr. Barry again and also reading every bit of interview material I can lay hands on; what I've learned about the man could almost write his autobiography. I'm not sure what he hasn't been asked, ad nauseum, which makes the fact I may have landed an interview with the great man (yes!) an incredibly intimidating experience - though, of course, that's not the only reason it ties my stomach in knots.

As an interviewer, you want to inform your readers about some of the basics but as an interviewer who's read what others have asked, I want to delve into uncharted waters, digging out questions that surprise him. In this case it's so terribly difficult, since so many have gotten there before me. So, if I do get the chance to query Mr. Barry don't expect the same old stuff. For that you can check out the dozens of previous interrogaters.

As for the actual book I'm currently reading, The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty, like the rest of his novels, is based on family history and the period of The Troubles in Ireland. Eneas, after having serve in World War I, joins "the British-led police force, the Royal Irish Constabulatory." That doesn't sound exceptional until you think about the time period. The Irish uprising is ripping the country apart in a brother-against-brother virtual civil war with England and amongst themselves. The Irish for the Republic have turned into a mafia. Anyone perceived as having helped support the English, no matter how inadvertantly, is - with few exceptions - slaughtered, cut down wherever they're found. And if a man tries to leave Ireland he's followed, to the ends of the earth, and executed, "justice" exacted for the love of country.

Eneas himself falls into the trap, having been witness to things beyond his control. Simply by being where he was and also refusing to participate in more violence, he's forced to flee, leaving behind his family and his beloved, Vivienne. Not that he doesn't fight for his right to stay. He's defiant and bold, leaving it 'ti lthe last minute before he sees there is really no recourse but to submit.

I could find a passage of unsurpassed beauty on any page, so I randomly turned to this expression of the ache for home:

"He sees the little bathing places of south Dublin, Sandycove, the Baths, the Forty Foot, places he barely knows, maybe visited the once in the old days when his mother would bring him to the capital... But his chest heaves with love, with peace, with pure need. It's the tobacco, the opium, of returning home. There might be angels standing on the rocky shores throwing out one after another bright ropes with grappling hooks to dig into and find purchase on his heart. One after another the arms rise like fishermen in the ancient like fishermen in the ancient days. Shortly he goes down riveted by his love, with the bolts of this love fastened into his skin..."

Yes, my country takes a few slams but it's also clear there are a few compliments behind some of the blather. Amis amuses me no end; I can take the digs. In fact, I've made a few myself. If you read this, keep in mind he's married to an American and now lives in this country.

The Age of Miracles by Karen Thompson Walker

This must be one of the biggest books of the summer. I'm around 1/3 of the way in and finding the blurbs are overblown. I'm not sure what it is about some books, why writers and reviewers rally around them when they're nothing special, then ignore little gems that pass right under the radar. I'm so frustrated; it's so unjust.

A Land More Kind Than Home by Wiley Cash

Wonderful, wonderful so far.

The End of Your Life Book Club by Will Schwalbe (Nonfiction)

Got this ARC at Booktopia, Oxford, MS.:

"Mary Anne Schwalbe is waiting for her chemotherapy treatments when Will casually asks her what she’s reading. The conversation they have grows into tradition: soon they are reading the same books so they can have something to talk about in the hospital waiting room. The ones they choose range from classic to popular, from fantastic to spiritual, and we hear their passion for reading and their love for each other in their intimate and searching discussions.

A profoundly moving testament to the power of love between a child and parent, and the power of reading in our lives."

I'm in the midst of trying to connect with Will Schwalbe, to interview him but the book won't be published 'til October so that won't run for a couple of months or so.

In addition, still re-reading Pride and Prejudice - as my Guardian Top 1,000 Novels List read - as well as plugging away, slowly, at Ulysses. But this weekend won't see much reading getting done; my brother and his wife are coming a-visiting, which also means I need to get off this computer and "balance" my life by cleaning the place.